


Quinn: The Color of Pain

by EgoDominusTuus



Series: Boys In Blue [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: But Eventually It Gets Better, Child Abuse, Quinn Backstory, character backstory, depictions of violence, explicit content, pre-game, rough childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgoDominusTuus/pseuds/EgoDominusTuus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sole Survivor Quinn's first memories aren't any prettier than a nuclear future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As I Didn't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic depictions of childhood violence. I wrote stories about Quinn's childhood to better understand my character, and I decided that I'd go ahead and throw them up here. Read at your own risk, and I understand if this doesn't get many views. But... sometimes, you have to look at the painful things to understand why a character behaves the way that they do.

My first memory comes from the age of five – I’d been trying to climb on a chair to get into the cabinet. My stomach was an empty ache, growling in protest to my lack of dinner, but my father had passed out hours ago. I knew better than to wake him. The temptation to do so was thwarted by the fact that I knew he was a monster, and you didn’t wake sleeping monsters. Not unless you wanted to be eaten.

  I’d made it almost onto the counter, my small fingers wrapping around a box of cereal like a trophy of a successful hunt. Even at a young age, I’d developed the agility to make tasks like this easy – perhaps because it was the only way that I’d managed to keep myself safe and nourished for so long. I was completely self reliant; I could feed myself, I could bandage myself. No one had ever offered to patch me up, after all. I couldn’t remember my mother, other than a pair of soft hazel eyes…

  My bare feet slipped against the slickness of spilled alcohol on the counter, and I came tumbling down. My own pain wouldn’t have been an issue, but I grabbed blindly to stop myself as I fell; instead of connecting with countertop, I caught a bottle of vodka. It was the only thing my father drank, and I could feel the aching sensation of fear in my stomach as the bottle crashed loudly to the floor. My chin slammed against the cheap tile, and my body sprawled back onto the chair before thumping solidly to the ground. 

  For a moment, I held my breath – blood was beginning to ooze from a cut on my leg, where the shattered bottle had laid me open. Cornflakes laid scattered on the floor, soaking up the liquid that spread like a shallow sea on the dirty laminate. In that second, I thought that he wasn’t going to wake, a heartbeat of sweet relief – and then I heard a furious roar from the other room.

  “Aubrey Pistol Francis, you little shit! What in the  _ fuck _ did you do?!” I jumped to my feet quickly, fingers scrambling to grab the half emptied box that was my prize. I back peddled, but my legs were small, and the floor was a shrapnel filled, vodka-soaked obstacle course… and I didn’t make it to the back door in time.

  A hand grabbed me by scraggly jet hair, jerking me backward. One arm seized around my throat, and the other ripped the cereal box from my hand. “You little fuck. That was my last bottle.” My father’s eyes were bright green, and streaked with drunken red veins. His face was handsome – charming as hell when he was sober. His black hair was slicked back. Even though his waist had gone to the wayside by drinking, he still had a hard, military body. Those strong arms threw the cereal box away from me, so that it smacked against the wall. The cornflakes when flying, and I heard them tapping on the ground like sleet… and then there was a fist in my stomach, and agony flared through me like a familiar song I’d danced to a thousand times before.

  I hated the tune. .

  “What, you little bitch?” Fingers jerked my head back so that I was forced to stare at him. His breath was ragged, and smelled like vomit and liquor. My heart was thundering in the back of my throat in a solid burn that begged to connect with my wide-eyed gaze. “Are you going to  _ cry _ ?”

  I don’t know when I’d learned that crying was a dangerous thing. I couldn’t remember what lesson had been beaten into me… but I knew that to cry was to invoke a wrath that I simply couldn’t face. His hand came back again, this time slapping me hard across the face so that I could taste blood on my tongue. Though my eyes continued to burn, I held back my tears.

  “I’m sorry,  _ sir _ .” The words spilled thick from my throat, slurred in childish speech. It only seemed to incite him further, because he threw me to the ground. I rolled, so that the glass and shards cut into my tattered jacket, piercing my skin only slightly. From the ground, I looked up at him – two steps sent him looming over me, and one boot came down onto a small, reaching hand. Pain flared through me, desperate to escape through some outlet, as my fingers were crushed slowly beneath his weight. Glass cut into my knuckles and dug deep, gouging into my skin beneath his  _ tender  _ ministrations – he bared down, his foot working back and forth. His eyes were locked on mine as he did, and I knew that he was looking for that weakness of tears. Though the sensation of his actions rocked through me with enough force that I would have vomited, had I any food in my stomach, my face stayed straight. I wouldn’t do it.

_  I wouldn’t do it. _

  His arm came down, and he grabbed me by my left wrist, jerking my body up so that I dangled in the air. Something popped, my left side burning in pain, and he lifted me until I hung limp in front of him. I could smell the liquor on his breath, and my body was shivering from pain and fear.

  But I didn’t cry.

  Slowly, a lazy smile crossed his face. Gabriel James Francis threw me from him, so that I clattered against the wall like the box of cereal before me. Something cracked, and my mouth was full of blood. I spat it to the ground beside me, and stared up at the man who had raised me with a blank, loveless expression. We were caught that way for a space of breaths, and then he turned away.

  “Fine, you useless little fuck.” He kicked the mostly empty box of cereal at me, so that it caught against my chest. I clutched it with one arm, because the other was arcing with pain, and I was afraid to move it. “Eat your goddamn cereal. But God fucking help you if you wake me up again.” His voice was a snarl, and he stomped from the room. A breath that I’d been fearfully holding spilled from my throat, and I grasped the box to my chest like the stuffed animal that I’d never been given.

  It took me a few minutes to push myself to my feet. I skirted the kitchen, running to my room in the basement. I was safe there, because he never came bumbling down the stairs for fear of his liquored stupor stealing his balance. I sat on dirty sheets, putting the cereal on the table beside me. Before I ate, I needed to patch myself up. My arm, though in pain, was slowly starting to burn up along my shoulder. It would get better on its own. I grabbed the box from the foot of my bed – where other kids had toys, I had bandages. It took more dexterity than I had to pick the glass from my knuckle, but I managed as best I could. After a few minutes, I staunched the bleeding and laid back against the sheets. Exhaustion was overwhelming, and the hunger that had driven me to risk my father’s wrath to begin with had faded away in the wake of it.

  My eyes turned instead to the small window – to the stars that were peeking out slowly. My eyes were hot, burning, but tears still wouldn’t come. He’d leave me alone for the rest of the night, and in the morning, I would have a meal. This was his game – this was always his game. If I was a good enough punching bag, I could get out of the situation still breathing.

  As long as I didn’t cry.


	2. And Everything Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn - Age Eight.

I hated cooking breakfast. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the stove, and every time that I jumped up and down from the chair that I’d pulled so I could reach the burners, I knew that I was risking my own skin. I wasn’t afraid of falling – I was afraid that the few seconds that I left the food unattended, it was going to burn.

  The smell of burning food made my mind cringe in memory of the times that I’d ruined breakfast before – a few hard punches, and I’d generally managed to squirm away from him and descend to the basement.

  Today though… something about today was already running off on my senses. I couldn’t explain it, but my insides were quaking in anticipation for a blow that hadn’t even come yet. The smell of bacon tried to lure me into a false sense of hope, and I quickly snagged a piece of it – on the days when my Father ordered me to make breakfast, I was lucky if I got to taste any of it. I’d learned long ago that the best way to handle the situation was to have bits and pieces of it as I went.

  I needed milk for the eggs – I’d forgotten to pull it out earlier - and my eyes caught the bacon for a second longer. I thought that I had time. I hopped down quickly, dropping the piece that I’d been eating against the counter, and made a dash for the refrigerator. Carton in hand, I was clambering back up onto my chair when a scent filled the air that made my insides absolutely quake.

  Burning food.

  Burning bacon.

  Smoke rose from the piece that I’d dropped onto the counter – the piece that I’d accidentally knocked into the burner on our stove.

  “Damn it.” My tiny voice let out a curse, and I thought in that split second of running out of the kitchen and simply leaving my Dad with the mostly prepared breakfast, and a distinct lack of  _ Quinn  _ to punch.

  It always occurred to me far too late that debating the matter was my downfall. I heard thundering footsteps, and I desperately tried to sweep the burnt food into the skin - my fingers scorched, the bacon stayed, and my father seized me by my hair and yanked me hard off of the chair.

  “What in the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?” My stomach dropped - I could smell the alcohol on his breath, even without trying to turn in his grip. I pressed my lips tight together before spilling out my answer.

  It was the same answer that I always gave, and it never seemed to do me a damn bit of good. “I’m sorry, sir.” I was eight now, and I could usually gauge how bad things were going to be. I’d never heard his voice so slurred, though, and I didn’t know what was going to happen.

  I should have left. 

  Pain instantly bubbled through my entire frame as he jerked me around, throwing my small frame against the counter. “You burnt the food, didn’t you, you little fuck?” He grabbed my hand, glaring at my burned fingers. “Were you trying to eat? Huh, you bitch? Is that why your fingers are burned?” His green eyes were a landmine of bloodshot drunkenness, and I could see that they were unfocused. The rage that was building behind them, however, had perfect aim - perfect focus. It pinpointed on my hand, and I didn’t have anywhere to run when he took my two burned fingers between his large ones and jerked roughly.

  I heard a sickening snap, and a wave of pain poured through me with enough strength to threaten me with sickness. My eyes stung, my throat burned, but I swallowed down the tears that desperately wanted to escape. I knew better than to even think about it - I knew better than to let it show on my face. 

 He searched my face, waiting for the response that I’d never given him. A slow, vicious grin crept across his face. “What, you pussy? Are you going to cry?”

  Why did he always ask me that? I never had, as long as I could remember. The pain in my hand was already beginning to numb out, and I wished that my mind would just follow along with it. 

  “No, sir.” I bit the words out, and saw his expression instantly flicker back to fury.

  “Are you sassing me, you little fuck? Do you think you’re funny?” I opened my mouth, unsure of how to answer. He was clearly more intoxicated than I’d ever seen him - I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do. I felt his fist land hard against my stomach, and another sickening crack echoed through my ears. Ribs - oh, my ribs. My breath was knocked out of me, and I fell forward. 

  He didn’t bother to catch me as I sank off of the counter, and I didn’t have the air or strength to get up and make for the basement doorway. I was rewarded with his foot catching against my ribs again, sending me spinning onto my back. I could taste blood in my mouth, and the vodka bottle that he held empty in his hand twisted around.

  “Don’t you fucking cry. You’re gonna grow up to be a man, damn it, not some little pussy ass bitch!” Reaching, angry hands yanked me up, a hard grip on my broken fingers that threatened to tear a scream from me - I didn’t have time to think if it would be worth it, because the empty bottle crashed against the left side of my face, and I felt blood begin to drip from my visage. 

  I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve this - I’d burned breakfast before, and it had never been this bad. Then again, I’d seen him go through two bottles, easily, this morning. I laid limp in his arms, my face passive, my eyes unreadable. Inside, somewhere deep inside, I could feel the tears that I couldn’t spill.

  “You little fuck. Are you hungry?”

  It was a trick question. Sometimes, after I’d taken a beating, he’d leave me alone - he’d let me have some small reward and leave me to lick my wounds. I couldn’t read the fury and drunken stupor in his eyes though, so I said nothing.

  My mistake.

  “Too good to fucking answer me? Fine!” He seized the pan from the stove, and I didn’t have a chance to realize what he was doing before it was done. White hot pain spilled through my body in a sizzling fury - smelled burnt fabric, and bubbling flesh… and agony shot from my upper thigh to the very tips of my fingers where he left the pan to scald into my flesh.

  My eyes widened, and finally, finally… I let out a scream.

  It wasn’t from pain, it was from  _ fury.  _ My leg was numb, blood obscured half of my vision, and I knew that if I stayed there, he was going to kill me. My fingers, the ones that weren’t seized and broken, searched. I found the bottle that he’d thrown, half shattered, to the counter… it only took a second to grab it, the broken glass slicing into my palm. I didn’t care - I threw the shattered bottle at his face, and the shock and bite of the sharp edge was enough to cause him to drop me. 

  Adrenaline was the only friend that I had, because it was all that gave me the strength to skitter out of the kitchen, through the back door, and into the sheets of rain that fell in waves. 

  I slammed the door behind me, and already the agony in my leg was making it difficult to walk - but somehow, when he screamed my name… I managed to run. The rain was blinding, but I knew where I was going - it was the only place that I could think of… the playground. 

  I didn’t know if he was following me, or if his own drunken stupor had forced him to stay in the kitchen. I didn’t have time to think - I darted through a few alleys to make sure that I would be hard to follow… and then I started to stumble. Agony was pouring through me, fitting across my small body like a second skin, and the rain was doing nothing to wash away the pain. Still, I limped forward, determined to make it to the playground, to the saucer, to safety.

  I didn’t know if I could go home ever again - I’d struck out against him, for the first time in my life, I’d hit him back. Hopefully, he’d be too drunk to remember what had happened, but I couldn’t be sure. 

  If he did remember, he’d kill me. 

  In that moment, I’d never felt more alone… 


End file.
